


Dalmore 62

by PenguinBowTie



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe -- NVUS, Cristiano is a Mystery, Drunkeness, Envious, EnvyUs, Iker and Miguel are helpful bartenders, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Sergio is a Bouncer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 10:12:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4517913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinBowTie/pseuds/PenguinBowTie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know I heard that about you. I heard that the Mickeys cost less, that the Grey and the Jack will fuck me up all the same, will leave me with the same amount of anguish and regret the morning after, swearing to "never again" while reaching for the patrón... </p><p>Nothing compares to the taste, the burn of a Dalmore 62 though. A shot of that Himalayan Soli Elit. That's the kind of burn that changes a man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dalmore 62

**Author's Note:**

  * For [facade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/facade/gifts).



> Things you should know: this concept is not my own. The summary is not my work. The NVUS AU is not my own . The first part (and the first two paragraphs of the second part) is not my own work. We spell certain words totally different, we arrange them differently, have style differences but I hope it's not too offputting (??). She said she would stab me if I gave her co-author credit though and I believe her.
> 
> With that said, this is being gifted to M'Lynn and being written with her OTP because she deserves more than she's given for all that she gives (though I was going to write an Aquarius/Cancer ship just to piss her off or her "twincestial nightmare" lol). Hope you guys enjoy!!
> 
> *Edited notes because I have the sickest writers on this site as friends and readers*

He's working the first time he sees him (though working is perhaps too generous of a term as he's actually taking one of his many smoke breaks in the alleyways outside). He's leaning against the brick wall, mentally preparing himself to return to the fray inside though he knows all too well that he'll never be quite ready, taking a drag and tainting the air around him with beautiful wisps of gray with his eyes cast towards the heavens. He looks away as the other stumbles out of the side door, laughing at nothing (and he thinks that's something) but himself on a backdrop of EDM that fades to quiet as the door clicks to a close. He goes unnoticed for a time, simply watches as the other staggers around and tries to grip onto anything -- the side of a dumpster, the exterior brick walls of the nightclub, thin air -- anything that increases his chances of remaining upright. He nods his head in silent approval ((good choice)) as the strange art form settles for the railings of the ramp, smiles as the drunken other giggles in a way that only the intoxicated do. It isn't until he coughs, clears his throat -- the smoke tickles the back of his throat as it escapes from within him -- that he finds himself under the attentions of the other. He shifts uncomfortably, widens his eyes and raises his eyebrows.

It's half past two according to his phone. It's half past two when a gentle breeze sneaks up the alleyways and carries his laugh, ((that)) laugh through his ears and into his soul. It's different than the laugh he has stumbled out of the club with, different than that drunken laugh. It's more than a sound and he smiles as it reaches him. He feels somewhat paralysed by it, can only nod his head as the strange art points back to the exit as if to say "you saw all of that?" because yes, he saw all of that.

He watches as the other drops his gaze to examine his shoes in a way he interprets as mild shame, listens as that drunken laugh escapes those strange lips again. He likes these kinds of drunks. They're his favourites. He nods as he and his cigarette are placed at the receiving end of an inquisitive point; he will usually tell the clubgoers to "fuck off" and the ones he doesn't, he gives them directions to the twenty-four hour convenience store located three blocks down with an unsympathetic tilt of the head... He doesn't tell him to fuck off though. Doesn't give him directions of any kind.

The night is cool and comfortable with only the sounds of traffic and sounds of distant sirens filling the street; It's his kind of quiet. He's pulling his pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket, violating some rule within his own code of conduct to be had between staff member and clubgoer, as he feels his lit stick of tobacco gently slipping out of his mouth. He pauses as he notices, slowly pulls his gaze from the pavement and the corners of his lips curl upwards to form an intrigued smirk as he finds the salivated butt of his cigarette already wedged between the full lips of the other. He watches as the other helps himself to a drag of it, becomes entranced by the simple beauty as the other lets the gray smoke curl out to dance and fill the spaces between them shortly after. There's always been something about gray wisps tumbling over lips that's always just... The lines of the strange art soften; his smile, his eyes, but there's a splash of suggestion on his canvas, something roguish about that smile, something impish in the sparkle of those dark eyes. He forces himself to look away as the other leans against an adjacent wall.

A woman is screaming on the sidewalks, forming the perfect distraction as she calls some guy with some name a "cheating fuck" amongst other profanities, slurs that call his sexuality into question, and he hears the strange art giggle again. He raises his eyebrows at the scene, smiles at the delighted sounds of the other man as he pulls his phone back out of his pocket and quickly checks its display for the time. His smile fades rather quickly; it's time for him to return back to his place at the ropes. He glances back to the strange art as if to bid him farewell (though he had never actually greeted him) but finds that the other man is chewing on his bottom lip in thought, is curling his index finger as he beckons him over, motions for him to move closer, to come to him. Time is just a concept of human invention, he decides. Time is, time is a stupid thing, such a stupid thing to think about, he decides. So he doesn't think about the time any further.

The Earth spins or perhaps it doesn't but something passes and he's now only inches away from this other. (He smells of Lotus and the colour blue). He's beautiful, yes, but he's seen plenty of beautiful people before -- thousands if not tens of thousands. There's something different about this beautiful person though, something different in that there's nothing different about him. That's what draws him to him. Beautiful people typically had a way about them when they floated into NVUS (because beautiful people levitate just above the earth, are too good for the dirt of mortal men), even the ones who don't necessarily realise their own beauty -- never alone, always with a friend or two but never in a large group, never meddling with staff who aren't behind the bar or shaking their asses with them -- but this man is seemingly alone, is smoking a cigarette ((his cigarette)) with the bouncer, is daring him to come even closer. 

He's lost in his thoughts, found in touch as fingers wrap around the base of his neck and breathing increases in difficulty. He shivers in anticipation, laughs quietly at himself as the other responds to the reaction with a gratified smirk. Heads tilt to sides opposing as smoke tumbles past parted lips to fill the diminutive space between them; he breathes in the discarded vapor of the other, draws in the gray wisps until he can feel the smoke burning within his lungs, and immediately exhales into the waiting mouth of the other. The space between them vanishes with the smoke.

He tastes expensive. He tastes Russian. He tastes like a bottle of the Stolichnaya Elit Himalayan stained with chocolate, a bottle so high up on the shelf that it isn't even on the shelf as it's under lock and key. He tastes like he certainly hasn't stumbled into and out of NVUS alone... One taste and he knows that he isn't his for the night, one feeling and he knows that he doesn't care. (He doesn't need a whole night). His head feels light and he is swimming, floating, drowning; fine lines blur and he feels the tectonic plates shifting. The mere taste of this man is intoxicating, consuming, and he's ready to admit that he's a stumbling drunk, that he's an alcoholic addicted to this flavour, to this feeling. Lips seperate, lungs desperate to draw air... but he's an alcoholic addicted to that flavour, to that feeling and one shot isn't enough.

He's swimming in the desperation as a button-up is buttoned down and he's shameless as he pulls at the cloth -- the complete fall of fabric prevented by the mid-bicep rise of the other's sleeves -- shameless as he admires the ridges and valleys of toned, muscled flesh on display with only his fingertips, worships the perfect carve of this other's abdomen by touching every inch, every centimeter of it... but he's an alcoholic addicted to that flavour, to that feeling. 

His hand falls as breaths shorten, become more rapid, become more ragged as fingers conquer new flesh. He's braced himself up against the wall, leaning against his forearm as he's using his free hand to rub this man's groin back to stone, to marble, to bronze as he devours this man's lips until enough is no longer enough. He's an alcoholic and his mouth waters, salivates as he thinks of the prospects that lay in wait but he feels the other man squeeze his free forearm a little tighter in a show of conflict -- too much yet not enough. A decision to live a little louder. Fingers are digging into his shoulders as lips part over his, as moans brush past them to accompany the sounds of the bustling life on the street as he slips his fingers past the fabric of the man's slacks, heart racing as they're hidden from view but just barely.

His head spins as he's swept away by the feel of the firmness of the other pressing back into his touches. He fondles him deliciously, moans as he's satisfied with all that he feels, all that he tastes. He pulls the foreign tongue back into his mouth, makes this other an offer he can't refuse, an offer he doesn't refuse, and his lips break away in search of an artery, a collarbone as his fingers...

He's warring with a button, ready to taste more of this other, as his thoughts find calm. His touches fall to slow, the beat of his heart to something within the reach of normal as his thoughts linger on the intoxicating taste of this man. He slows himself further still. He tastes expensive. He tastes Russian. He concedes the war, reluctantly leaves the button and the zipper in their mission to unite, and swallows the protests of this other in a kiss that rings deeper than the Pacific until he feels himself starting to falter. He tastes expensive. He tastes Russian. He tastes nothing. If this is a test, he's passing albeit barely. Art must be respected and already he's touched the priceless work marked "hands off"; he'll do no more damage and excuse himself for his trespasses with a finger pointed to his addiction to that taste, that feeling.

The EDM grows louder and drunken laughter fills the alleyways; some girl from some sorority is speaking with another (("I can't believe --that's-- who he cheated on you with. She's such a fucking bimbo")) as another still is whining about how they never listen to her when she's speaking. The EDM fades with the sounds of their voices, with the clicking of their heels. It's quiet: forgive the various sounds of the traffic passing by, the gentle sounds of their ragged breathing and that breathy, vodka chuckle of this other man. Their faces are only millimeters apart and he's struggling yet prevailing. He thinks that this other looks a bit more intoxicated than he had before and he smirks in favor of the affect it seems he's had on this other's being, flashes the killer smile that's been passed on to him from his father (or so says his mother), from his father before him as he feels the body of the other lean against his in support.

He can't see the stars through the smog of the city but he knows that they're there so he looks up again as he pulls another cigarette from his pack. A little flame dances before him, smoke curls out from within him. His fingers find soft hair, his fingers gently clench and pull until his eyes find the features -- the rises, the falls -- of the other's face. His lips find lips -- briefly, gently -- find air just before finding smoke through the filter of his cigarette. He takes a few drags, mindlessly hands it over and smiles as he feels his face pulled in once again, sees the tilt, breathes the smoke but the space between them remains as the vapor is exchanged until it disappears. (Take a drag. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat). 

He inhales and his eyes close for he doesn't know how long, his eyes open as EDM rips through the alleyways once more. No laughter this time. A familiar voice finds him as eyes still search for him: he's needed back inside. He looks to this other, furrows his brows as he finds a faint smile playing on lips, a soft curiosity shining through irises as the visage of the other becomes wisped with gray. A hand is placed an inch from his face, fingertips gently play at his lips, and eyebrows raise in intoxicated intrigue.

It is only then that he realises that he's still holding smoke within his lungs. 

He thinks about the other as he's filling out his incident reports for the evening, thinks about his taste, his feel. He finds himself wondering what a guy like that had been doing at a place like NVUS, wondering who he'd been with -- a lover, friends, family -- while wondering if and when he'll be coming back. He thinks about the burn of his lungs, he thinks about the feel of those lips, the weight of that gaze that pierced like the arrows of Artemis. He had tasted expensive. He had tasted Russian. He had tasted like a bottle of the Stolichnaya Elit. He had tasted like he certainly hadn't come alone. He doesn't care.

He takes his time in leaving, stopping to speak with some of the others on staff -- the bartenders, the go-go dancers, the other bouncers -- describing the smoke wisped stranger from the alleyways. One of the go-go dancers had thought that she had seen him on the night, had even taken a picture with the man that she had in mind, but he finds himself disappointed by the two dimensional image. (("Forget about him, Sergio. So many people come through here there's no point in getting caught up in one. You'd probably be over him as soon as you fuck him anyway.")) (("If he was so amazing, why didn't you get his number? ...his name at the very least?")) (("I'll keep an eye out but you're not giving me a lot to go on, man.")) (("Damn. He must have been a hell of a kisser. It's too bad he was drunk though. Yeah, I'll keep tabs for you")).

Weeks pass filled with nothing but wrong people, people who aren't him. Months pass. He gives up.

*

It's one of his rare nights off and he's sitting at home watching Real Madrid's latest match when his phone starts vibrating; he hadn't been able to watch the game on the day of as NVUS is the squad's go-to place after a home victory and the club takes no risks with security on those days, (he even gets paid double). He glances down and reads the text over the linked words: Multimedia Attachment. (("He ordered Russian. A bottle of Stolichnaya Elit. If this is him, he's totally out of your league, man")). Iker's the only one who's still keeping tabs around the club for him though he doesn't know why Iker's still holding out the flickering candle of his faith. It's been nearly three months since the encounter and even he's given up though he's never forgotten. He taps at his screen in impatience as the image is still downloading while cursing his service provider. (("Seriously. I can see why you were so messed up after meeting this guy but he's pouring a month's paycheck plus my tips down his throat right now")). He taps the file as soon as his phone finishes the download (a century later), waits for some whatever app to open it. (("If you don't fuck him, I might. I have no problem being that morning after this guy spends the rest of his life trying to live down")). There's no way that Iker's managed to find... He stops. Breath hitching, cheeks flushing. He smiles.

He checks the time and sends back a confirmation text, hand collapsing over his mouth in silent disbelief just before he anxiously makes his way into his bedroom, exchanges the comfort of his sweats for a nice pair of jeans and a tee shirt while assuring himself that he needs to pick up his paycheck anyway. His phone vibrates again and he's reading the message with an immovable grin, cursing the bartender as he does. (("You have twenty-four karat taste on a fool's gold budget. Hell, you won't live to see the morning after if you try to swing at this)). His fingers glide over the keypad of his phone as he informs the other that he's on his way to pick up his paycheck, confident that the other man will catch the implications of the text. ((Fuck. Fine. Fine. I'll try to hold him up at the bar for you but I don't think he came alone)).

He has never made it to work in less than ten minutes before but he manages to make it there in half that time. He tells himself that it's because there's no traffic at one in the morning on a Saturday night despite the neverending lines of stopped up traffic and the continuous sounds of car horns echoing throughout the city. David lets him through the door while informing him that Iker has his check and something else at the bar for him with a wink. He smiles and something flutters.

He's making his way through the crowd, overwhelmed and slightly sickened by the nauseous smells of various alcohols and sweat, when he sees Iker leaning over the bar top, chatting up a guy who seems to be dressed rather well. He can tell from the clothing that the guy is the same guy from the image Iker had sent him, that this guy is his guy. He hates himself for not having figured out how to approach the other man in the time that it took him to get to NVUS so he decides not to.

He's talking to Iker about his paycheck, about his schedule, about the other's girlfriend (and Iker glares with a smile -- well played), about some bullshit complaint that materializes on a whim and Iker's going with it all. Until he offers him a mixed drink and heads into the back to grab the various things he needs to make it. He never comes back.

He lights a cigarette as a means to calm his nerves before they start showing through, allows the smoke to burn at his lungs and turns as if he's just casually glancing around the club. He finds that the other is already looking at him though, turns the corners of his lips up in a smile, tilts his head to the side as if he's trying to remember him. The other blushes and smiles as the smoke disperses between them. He looks away but for no more than a moment. A hand is placed an inch from his face and the other's fingertips play with his lips.

He grins and somehow manages to muster up the courage to talk to him, smiles as he makes out words coated in a thick accent, perhaps Portuguese. He blushes as the other says his name for the first time. It sounds beautiful as it rolls off of those lips. He buys him a drink, then another, and another as they pass out shots of the Soli Elit until they're both laughing loudly at nothing and falling over one another. He's not sure if it's the alcohol that's intoxicating him or if it's the presence of the other man, if the liquor is the reason his veins feel like they're on fire or if it's the touch of the other man that's sending his blood ablaze but he's consumed regardless.

They stumble throughout the club together, bumping into more than a few of his coworkers as they make their way to the street (("Sergio, who's your friend? He's hot." "I didn't know you were working tonight. I thought... Oh fuck. You're so smashed, man." "Whoa there. Going for the top shelf tonight, are we? Stick with the Mickey's, man. They'll fuck you up all the same but it won't cost you as much if you know what I mean.")) David stops them and decides that he needs to call them a cab and neither wants to argue with him so they don't.

He pulls a cigarette out of his pack before stuffing the rest into his back pocket, lights it and takes a long drag before handing it over to the other who takes it from him. He's releasing the smoke as he feels himself being pulled in front of the other, smiles as he feels a hand at the nape of his neck and leans in to draw in the smoke the other unleashes between them. He burns - in his lungs, in his veins, at the base of his neck - he burns and he loses himself in the feeling.

He only realizes that his eyes have closed when the chuckle of the other resounds and pulls him out of that darkness, eyes wide and curious as a taxi pulls in behind him. Time passes. It's like dejá-vu. A hand is placed an inch from his face, fingers play at the part of his lips. He's still holding smoke within his lungs.

He moves his lips as if to exhale but finds them covered by the soft ones of the other, finds the other both drinking the smoke back in and allowing it to disperse between and around them as he coaxes his tongue into his mouth. He doesn't feel himself being turned as he drowns in the taste of his handsome, half stranger. He doesn't hear David talking to the driver, doesn't see him pay the driver as he slides his hands soothingly along the sculpted back of this other man. He doesn't hear the taxi door being opened behind him as he releases a soft moan of satisfaction. He feels fire. He tastes fires. He's completely oblivious to the worlds outside of this half stranger's until he feels himself being gently shoved into the backseat of the cab, hears the door closing as soon as he falls into the seat, and he tastes, he tastes disappointment as he finds the smoke wisped other on the side opposite, waving a sweet goodbye and smiling almost sorrowfully as he stands in front of the backdrop of NVUS as the cab pulls forward, takes him away.

*

He's sitting in his favorite coffee shop, reading Marca because he has nothing better to do, when he looks up and sees him again. He finds the other leaning against the counter, trying to remember if he likes soy or not, stopping mid thought to point to something sweet behind the glass. He isn't alone but he doesn't seem to be giving the people with him much thought as he tries to put his order together for the barista. He still doesn't know his name - doesn't remember if the other had ever given him his name or if he had simply been too drunk at the time to remember it - but it's been a few weeks and he's pretty sure that the other has already forgotten him (though he'd remembered him after months).

He simply smiles at the memory and he looks back down at his paper though he finds himself reading the same sentence at least ten times and he still can't register what it reads. He doesn't like how distant that memory is, how long ago it had been. He throws the newspaper to the side in defeat and settles for stirring his boring, black coffee, hoping that it's cool enough to drink as he takes the mug in his hands.

He jumps a bit, startled, as something sweet in a plastic bag collides with the back of his head as its handler moves past him. He inhales annoyed, ready to react, to threaten the person that had been so careless, but he stops himself as the 'careless' person throws a soft smile from over his own shoulder with a suggestive wink. He blushes and looks down at his coffee, as warm as his cheeks beneath his touch, a small smile playing on his lips.

The other is outside when he looks back up, gesticulating wildly with his hands as he says something to his friends with a smile that seems to devour most of his face. It's contagious, he realizes, as the group seems to smile back at him, to laugh with him. Time passes but he doesn't know how much of it does. The group heads off on a street that will take them towards the heart of the city but the other remains, drink and plastic wrapped deliciousness in one hand, thumb dancing solo over the sleek surface of a cell phone in the other.

He decides to try to read that paragraph again and is reaching for his Marca copy when knocking on the window pulls his attention and that of every other patron in the small coffeehouse to the man outside. He flushes (again) and smiles (again) as the other man is encouraging him to come outside, to join him. He rises from his seat, laughs as he overhears some elderly woman telling her husband "that young man wants me to run off with him, Luis. He is rather handsome" and the "I'm going to have to beat that young man to a pulp with this here cane for hitting on my lady," in response. He leaves his coffee on the table, the liquid within it untouched and laid to waste, but he doesn't think of that as he ventures out of the glass door and onto the curb.

They wander around the city and eventually find themselves lost in the city's maze-like botanical gardens though he's starting to think that this had been the other's intent when he had led them into the garden. He's laughing like he hasn't in years as he chases the other around the curves and the corners of the maze until neither of the two has anywhere else to go. A bench and a dead end.

The sun shines brightly above him -- above them -- making the sweat now coating his skin -- their skin -- glisten and shimmer under its touch. He smiles softly as he sees the other pull his bottom lip between his teeth, fidgeting nervously with the foliage as his back presses against the leaf walled dead end. He decides that he wants to kiss the other man again, realizes that's what the other is tempting him into doing, so he gives in to his urges.

He starts off gently, keeps his touches tender and restrained as he's only 98 percent certain that this is what the other had in mind when he had led him into the botanical gardens. He realizes that he's only half right when he feels fingers attacking the button of his jeans and loses the lips of the other man.

He tries to stay quiet, tries to swallow his moans of pleasure and grunts of contentment as he's unsure of who's around and how far away they may be, but the other man makes it difficult as he seemingly swallows him whole, takes him in in a way that drives all of his senses mad. He threads his fingers through the other's hair, whimpers as the very mouth that produces the most beautiful sounds he's ever heard elicits the most vile sounds from his, and he feels himself... Close. He's so close to toppling over the edge, losing himself to the hotwet sensations of that velvet mouth...

His eyes widen as a woman, perhaps in her early twenties, rounds the corner, eyes roaming the walls curiously. She stops when she sees him -- them -- and pales as she realizes what's happening and covers her mouth. He's too close to tell the other man to stop, doesn't want to tell him to stop but the girl, she's just, she's just ...watching them? She's blushing and he can see that she's smirking and he's, he's...

Never come harder in his life. The woman leaves as he's climbing down from his climax and he's trying to think of a way to tell... He realizes just then that he still doesn't know the other man's name, doesn't know much of anything about him. He feels ashamed as the man just gave him what was inarguably the best blowjob of his life but he supposes he can find a way to casually pick up the other's name without offending him.

He finds the question he wants to ask within his thoughts and goes to speak, smiles as he feels the other man licking his lips in finality, shoving the button of his jeans back through the loop for him, but...

He's following the other back to his place before he ever asks his question, is shoving the other body against a wall and ripping off his clothes, no longer bothered by the question of names. 

There's something exhilarating about fucking at midday and he says as much as the other cleans his own come from off of his stomach, smiles when the other smiles in agreement. They both decide that it's because there's no choice of darkness at midday, that inebriation hasn't been thought of by the non-alcoholics. It's that light switches are virtually useless, that while everyone else is busy exhausting themselves by bustling about on the streets outside, they're little more than limbs in a heap still lying in bed.

He catches the other say something about it being ten times better when someone else is watching, a knowing smile forming on those lips and he wants, needs to kiss him again... so he does, softer than the breeze floating through the room.

He follows the other out onto the balcony, a cigarette hangs loosely from his lips and a small flame dances in front of him. He smiles as the other leans against the railing and he takes a drag, closing the distance between himself and the other man, letting smoke fill the empty spaces between them.

They're staring at the city together, watching the cars pass by and the people scurry about; he's holding the body of the other tightly in his arms, occasionally resting his forehead against the nape of a tanned neck until the other turns around. A hand is placed an inch from his face. Fingers play at the part of his lips. He drew in no smoke and yet still he feels as if he's -- holding smoke within his lungs -- burning from the inside out.

*

He talks to Iker over his break that weekend, tells him everything that had happened between himself and the other and smiles as the bartender shakes his head in disbelief. He doesn't care that Iker thinks that the other is out of his league and he dismisses the others concerns as a sign of envy because why wouldn't Iker be envious?

He washes his hands in the sink behind the bar, the one the bartenders spit their drinks into, and is heading towards the club's entrance when he sees his ex girlfriend dancing across the floor. Instinctively, he smiles -- their break up, though quite recent, had been amicable and he had respected her wishes when she had said that she had wanted to spend a year getting to know herself better -- and starts to make his way towards the beautiful vixen but he finds himself held by a rage as he finds that she hasn't come alone, hasn't come with her group of friends (though he's always supposed that were incapable of being apart as was the case throughout their two year relationship). There is a man with her and that in itself would be fine if that man hadn't happened to have been his brother. She has always got on well with Rene but they, they were getting on too well on the dance floor and even then, it looks like it's more than simple hip gyrations.

He draws in a large breath of air - and then another, one more for good measure - and he checks his breath for any traces of alcohol (because he --has-- to be seeing things), smells only the Philly Cheesesteak he had scarfed down for dinner. Something possesses him, something sends him forward and he bumps into clubgoers in the hurried process, sending a few of them crashing to the floor.  

He pulls Rene off of Pilar, shoves him to the side in a challenging manner, and he takes Pilar firmly by the wrist, pulls her behind himself in a protective manner (though she isn't his to protect). Rene is shameless though and isn't backing off so easily -- liquid courage, he thinks -- and his brother rushes him and presses his knuckles into the side of his face. Pain radiates throughout his entire body but he chooses not to dwell in it, chooses to return the favor instead. He hears yelling, feels himself being pulled off of his brother.

He is being pushed and pulled until he finds the street laying before him in wait and he spins on his heels, points back at the club as a desperate look envelopes his features and in that moment he knows he's suffering a concussion. He can feel hundreds of eyes on him but that he finds --his-- as --he-- stands glued to the side of some guy that looks as if he's walked off of a GQ cover. Thoughts of Pilar and Rene leave him. 

He isn't his. He isn't his to protect, he isn't his to control. Those are the words he's telling himself. He doesn't know him, he's a stranger standing before him, they've fucked once but they're nothing more. He knows this, all of this... but he still feels something as he sees the other disappearing into the club with a man that isn't him, throwing an almost sorrowful look over his shoulder.

He looks down at his hands, finds them shaking so he pulls a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and shoves it between his lips, inhales the smoke through the filter as soon as it burns. He holds in the smokes, lets it burn away at his lungs.

*

He laughs as David is flashed by yet another woman, laughs as he allows yet another woman through the ropes. NVUS is packed and passersby are being forced to walk on the sidewalk opposite of the club; Real Madrid had defeated Barcelona earlier that evening and the squad that had taken the Bernabéu by storm had taken all of NVUS' VIP section by storm, as well. David's having the time of his life, has seen more tits than Hugh Hefner and, as Sergio's laugh fades and takes his smile with it, he feels the emptiness returning... until he sees him, breezing by the line at the hip of the only "out" Madridista. His brows furrow in question but he doesn't ask, just watches as that almost sorrowful expression returns, as the other man disappears inside.

It's early in that it's late and the party inside is in full swing and the line is starting to disperse as patrons realize that they won't be getting into NVUS on the night. He's turned to speak with David as he feels someone nudge into him from behind. For once he isn't surprised to see the other man and for once he knows what he wants to say, wants to ask. He informs David that he needs to take a break and David nods simply. 

Answers find him and he smiles. He has to. It was so obvious and yet he hadn't seen it. It explained the clothes, the nice condo near the the heart of the city, the nice car he had seen in the drive, the expensive tastes that stained his tongue. It didn't bother him. He actually feels relieved. "So if I wanted to take you out...?"

The other smiles and looks away shyly, taking a drag of the cigarette they're sharing as a soft pink stains his cheeks. "I don't think you can afford me," he laughs as the smoke clouds around him. "...but I'll make you a deal." He looks down at the pavement, fidgets as if he's unsure of his own proposal. "If you can find me after tonight, I'll take you out on a date. A real one. Not some..." he motions behind himself as if to refer to his reason for being there. He smiles as the other nods. "You know, this is a pretty nasty habit," he states as he finishes off the cigarette and tosses the butt of it into the dumpster.

"I should probably try to kick it then?" He's been looking for an excuse but there's something addicting about the burn. He simply smiles as the other informs him that oxygen does the same thing a cigarette does to you, just at a slower pace, "so why bother?" He looks up, grabs the other's arm as he looks set to return inside. "Can I at least get your name? It might make finding you, I don't know, possible?"

He stops, unsure of what he's supposed to say. He's never been asked his name before, has always been given an identity as he accompanied whoever to where ever. "Cris," he answers cautiously, looking around to make sure that the two of them are alone as the foreign sounding name, his name, tumbles off of his lips. "Cris Aveiro."

*

He had gone by the condo that following evening but had found out through a neighbor that "Thiago" had returned back to Seville to take on a new job that very morning but that a "Cris" had never lived there. He had stalked his favorite coffee shop hoping for him to return with his group of friends; two weeks passed before a familiar face came in and assured him that she didn't know a Cris. He showed her the picture Iker had sent him so long ago and her eyes had lit up. "Oh, you mean Marc? His aunt is sick and he's had to go across the country, to Barcelona to take care of her".

It's been months and he's exhausted. Iker's filling his glass at the bar when suddenly he's not. "Didn't you say that his voice sounded funny?" "He had an accent. It sounded Portuguese but not like the Portuguese I'm used to hearing. Why?" He watches as Iker pulls out a book and thumbs through the pages, finds something and picks up the phone before disappearing into the back room. He starts drinking from the bottle, smiling at his boss through the surveillance camera. He's not working tonight, they're not open yet, and he'll pay for it. 

"You owe me a blowjob," Iker announces with a chuckle as he reenters the room and slides the book across the counter. There's something circled on the marked page, an establishment with an address linking it to Lisbon. Portugal. "That's the only club in all of Portugal that serves the Himalayan Soli Elit."

*

The music is pulsing and the lights are flashing wildly; he already has a headache and there are way too many people packed into this place but he's determined to get to the bar. He gets there in one piece but barely as a woman attempts to make out with his arm and whispers something in Portuguese that makes him blush despite his lack of understanding. He concedes defeat as the bartender barely makes out his order over the music, swallows down his drink without tasting it and fights his way out of the club, collapsing to the sidewalk when he finally makes it out of the exit, taking in copious amounts of the air surrounding him. He looks up and sees a small diner across the way. 

He makes his way over to the restaurant, smiles as he's greeted as he walks inside and makes his best attempt at Portuguese receiving excessive applause for effort in response. He's blushing as he slides into the booth. He orders in Portuguese and the woman is kind as she occasionally corrects his pronunciations before she disappears into the kitchen. Another woman slides across from him, asks what brings him to Portugal in broken Spanish.

He smiles and tells her that he's looking for Soli Elit and she frowns, confused because "can't it be ordered online". A blush reaches across his features and he chooses to tell her about that night at NVUS, about the first time he had tasted Soli Elit, the first time he had truly tasted it. She smiles sweetly, places her hands over one of his and tells him about a cozy little bar just a few blocks down. "Ask for Miguel", she says. "He's been in the area most of his life and, before then, Coimbra. He might be able to help you."

He finishes his food rather quickly, leaving enough to indicate that he's full but not too much so as to inform the chef that he found it to be appealing (he doesn't know the customs of the Portuguese), and heads off in the direction the woman had pointed him in, finding the bar to be just as she had described it.

He orders some Jack and fidgits as he's unsure of how to go about asking for this Miguel, swirls his drink around until the bartender clears his throat in front of him, eyes kindly asking him "what's on your mind" while simultaneously demanding that he spill it. He does, albeit in Spanish, and the other simply watches him until he doesn't. He'd pulled away at the mentioning of Cris Aveiro and has come back with another man.

He's gorgeous and he looks more like a model than he does a bartender but he doesn't tell the man that, he simply smiles and prays that he hasn't found offense. "Did you say something about Cris Aveiro, Spaniard?" He's afraid to nod but he does and he flinches as the gorgeous bartender reaches forward and grabs his glass, downs the whiskey within it. He goes to apologize for whatever he's done but stops himself as a fresh glass is placed in front of him. He watches as the pretty bartender disappears and reappears, watches as he fills the glass with a clear liquid...

"You know I know all about people like you," the Portuguese man chuckles as he seals off the Soli Elit and places it beneath counter for the time, shoving the glass closer to him in the process. "I've also heard that the Mickeys cost less, that the Grey and the Jack will fuck a person up all the same, will leave a person with the same amount of anguish and regret the morning after, swearing to "never again" while reaching for the patrón..." he trails as he starts wiping down the counter, stops to smile and voice a greeting as someone walks through the door. "Nothing compares to the taste, the burn of a Dalmore 62 though." He points to the glass in other's grasp and eyes it for a moment before flicking his sights back on the the person who had just walked in. "A shot of that Himalayan Soli Elit." He smiles as Sergio presses the glass to his lips...

...who furrows his brow as the gorgeous bartender moves his finger to point at a table just behind him. "That's the kind of burn that changes a man"

**Author's Note:**

> Mickey's is a really cheap kind of beer in America. Grey is referring to Grey Goose. Jack is Jack Daniels. They're all referenced as speech figures as drinks like Mickey's aren't available in Europe but there's always an equivalent (did I get that right? Lol)
> 
> Delmore 62 is top shelf whiskey and Himalayan Soli Elit is some expensive ass vodka.


End file.
